Abandonment (Ch. 15)

It was the day after my seventeenth birthday, summer of '76. We had sold our house, driven cross country to Los Angeles, and rented a place on La Cienega before my father made this declaration:
"Frances, we're getting a divorce. I've had it."
My mother and I learned eventually, through Uncle Harry, that my father had been involved with another woman, a Swedish masseuse, during the years I took lessons in New York. The affair began when Kris, the Swede, had strutted into Kransberg's Furniture to purchase a highboy, and offered each of the Kransberg men a massage for a discounted price on the piece. My father lowered himself onto a LaZBoy recliner, and succumbed. After the massage, Kris got the highboy, wholesale.

I imagine that my father must have felt somewhat conflicted about dropping us off in Los Angeles like two duffel bags. The moment we arrived in the smog-filled, sprawling metropolis, he must have missed his sweetheart, Kris, who probably plied and tugged his body like a lump of dough. My father begged to be let out of the prison that was his marriage, to be relieved of the ball and chain that was his violinist daughter, to finally start a new chapter and, borrowing a line from Frank Sinatra: "To do it his way."

My mother called him crazy, told him that he was exhausted, over-wrought from retirement, the relocation, the sale of our house. At the time she knew nothing of the extra-marital affair. My father responded by pounding his chest like a penitent Jew at Yom Kippur. Our small living room on La Cienega had turned into a Wailing Wall. I covered my ears hoping the neighbors would be spared.
"Forgive me, forgive me, Frances! I waited all these years. I waited till Marjorie finished high-school and turned seventeen. She's gonna take care of you from now on. I can't go on pretending—"
My fifty-five year-old mother slumped to her knees on the brown shag carpet, sobbing. An eternity seemed to pass before she found strength to respond.
"You're sick! Cruel! Mixed-up in the head, John. We've been married thirty-seven years. No, wait." Her lips moved frantically as she counted. "We've been together over forty years. I was thirteen, you were fifteen—I'd walk all the way from Derby Street in Salem to Cabot Street in Beverly just to be with you—remember? The Willows. Forest River Park. Our parents, may they rest in peace, never knew from a divorce in the Old Country! It's a shande, a disgrace. You can't abandon Margie and me at a time like this in a foreign city. Oh God, why, why, why are we here?"

I threw my arms around my mother. Her shoulders convulsed with grief.
"Please, please," my mother barely caught her breath. "At least stay for Margie. Our baby just turned seventeen. She needs us both. I'll be good. A good wife—"
"Mum, it'll be OK," I cried. The man standing at the door was a stranger; he meant nothing to me now. "Shhh! Really, let him go," I pleaded. "Can't you see? Daddy doesn't want to be with us."
She reached for my father; hands out-stretched. "I thought—I really thought, John, that we were to begin life anew." Her voice broke between sobs. "But as a family."
Moments later, he stepped out the door. The man that had been my father was gone.

♭♩ ♬♮♬ ♯♪♮♩ ♯♬ ♮♩ ♫ ♯♪♭♩

About a month after my father's grand finale, I sat in the backseat of the car while my mother drove to Jascha Heifetz' house in Beverly Hills. It was a deliciously warm afternoon. I rolled open the window of our Oldsmobile to catch a breeze and feel the sun on my face. My father had left the car to my mother, along with a six figure check from the sale of our New England home. She cried the whole way, through stop signs and traffic lights. "Your father will return, precious dolly. I know he will. Almost forty years of marriage. You don't just throw it all away. He'll come back. He will." A few miles later. "Won't he?"

I alternated between chewing my nails and practicing the scales mentally in the car.
G Flat; yes, six flats. E Flat, the relative minor. Starting in first position and immediately to third, all the way up and down three octaves. I had worked diligently on the bloody scales, for I had to make it into the masterclass, had to. I dressed for the audition in the manner that Claire Hodgkins, his former assistant, had suggested: skirt slightly below the knees, about two inches, blouse with 3/4 sleeve, hair loosely tied back, eye-glasses replaced with contact lenses. Jascha Heifetz would not accept a female that looked like a male, especially a bespectacled one into the class. Light mascara and lip gloss had been dabbed but not coated. I wore flat-heeled and well-polished shoes.

My mother lurched along Sunset Blvd; drivers honked and swore. "Yo! Dudette. Step on it, will ya?" "Let's see," she said, ignoring the rude gestures and comments while holding notebook paper up to the windshield. "This says: Turn right on North Beverly Drive to Coldwater Canyon. Right on Lindacrest which becomes Lloydcrest. Up the winding hill to 1520 Gilcrest Drive." I was beginning to feel carsick from the sudden starts and stops. "Almost there."
She tapped her foot from gas pedal to brake, gas pedal, brake.
"Look, dolly. The wooden security gate!"
My mother announced our names into the intercom; I folded my hands prayer-like: calm down, calm down, calm down.


At the audition, I tossed whatever scales Heifetz requested with uncharacteristic ease. To my surprise, it felt as if we were engaged in a game of ping-pong, his favorite leisure activity. Heifetz served a key and I returned the scale. He inquired as to what else I had prepared, and I replied with the Vieuxtemps Fifth Concerto. Ayke Agus, a beautiful Indonesian woman, accompanied me at the piano. Heifetz tapped against his desk with a TV antennae for us to stop right before the cadenza.
"Marjorie Kransberg, Marjorie Kransberg," I heard him say, slowly at first, then faster, as if recalling my initial audition from years back. I was thirteen at that time and had failed the scale test.
"Is that your name?"
I nodded apologetically. "Yes."
"That's rather a mouthful, I would say."
 And I found myself wondering: Why did I have to get stuck with such a crummy, polysyllabic name? Kransberg, the name of our ancestral village in the Ukraine, was bad enough; worse, it reminded me of my father and all the other cantankerous Kransbergs.
"Do you have a middle name? Most people do."
"Jill." My tongue rested against my front teeth.
"Marjorie Jill Kransberg," he said, accenting the Jill. "An even bigger mouthful."
I agreed whole-heartedly.

"Well, Ayke? What's your verdict?"
I glanced at her from the corner of my eye.
She smiled up at me, then at him, and nodded. Her voice was soft and kind. "I thought Marjorie's audition went very well, Mr. Heifetz."
There was an awkward silence as he fidgeted with the antennae and gazed out the expansive window. After clearing his throat, he said matter-of-factly, "You will begin in the fall."
I nodded. Ayke nodded. Heifetz nodded.
"Well, since we all seem to be in agreement here— Ayke, you may inform her mother."
"Shall I bring Marjorie's mother into the studio, Mr. Heifetz?"
"No, Ayke. You may not."
"Yes, Mr. Heifetz."
She raised herself from the piano bench, and stepped gracefully out of the studio.

While I went to pack away my violin, he edged near. "Who, may I ask, have you studied with—recently, that is?"
I gazed up at him, trying to read the piercing blue eyes. Had he noticed a marked improvement in my playing from my prior audition, because, if so, it was the result of Erick Friedman, his protégé's teaching.
"Erick Friedman," I stated, and loosened my bow hairs.
"Who?"
"Erick Friedman," I repeated, thinking Mr. Heifetz must not have heard.
 "I don't know the name," he said.

Class party at Heifetz' beach house in Malibu

I was to become enlightened at the first session of the Heifetz Masterclass. Mr. Heifetz entered the room without fanfare at the Thornton School of Music at U.S.C, took a seat behind his large desk, and, after wishing us all a good morning, had the students introduce themselves to one another: Jacqueline Brand, Sherry Kloss, Tony Sen, Christian Bor,  Daniel Mason, Barbara Nord, and Stacey Phelps. Mr. Heifetz then made an attempt to ease our jitters by espousing his philosophical views about teaching. He said that he hoped to inspire the class to learn and never stop learning, for that was, in his opinion, the goal of every dedicated teacher. The students, lined in a row against the wall, listened with rapt attention. Mr. Heifetz concluded his brief introductory remarks by urging us to remember that each and every human being is, indeed, a member of the animal kingdom.

Perhaps that explains everything.

✡ FINEM PRIMI LIBRI ✡

Warnings (Ch.14 Pt.3)

Backstage at Carnegie Hall, I watched as my father inched up the receiving line to speak with Erick Friedman. As he made his way to the violinist, surrounded by enthusiastic audience members waving program books to be signed, I huddled closer to my mother. I had an inkling that my teacher would be upset by the news of my departure from his studio. It was all so sudden. Mr. Friedman took notice of my father, smiled, and then cast a glance in my direction. I could tell that he was expecting the kudos he well deserved for having played three concertos splendidly plus an encore in one evening. His eyes signaled to me, "If I can do this, you can too someday." But then, my father whispered something into Mr. Friedman's ear, and my teacher stepped back, wounded.  I could imagine my father's words. "You understand Boychik. It's for the best. We're talking Los Angeles and Heifetz now."

David Oistrakh sketched by Friedman

The following Saturday I went to my lesson, as usual, with my mother. The man that towered over six feet, and opened the door to the apartment resembled Erick Friedman, but his manner was aloof. My mother, sensing his displeasure, was full of apologies.
"I know Erick. I know. It's difficult to lose a fine pupil. But my husband. Well, if we don't mind him, there's no predicting what he'll do. This is sort of a mid-life crisis, I suppose."
Erick Friedman paced from piano to music stand, the mezuzah pendant bouncing across his broad, hairy chest. I glanced up at the wall while unpacking and noticed my teacher's drawing of violinist, David Oistrakh, next to the nudes. I wanted to inquire about the picture but felt inhibited.

"It's not that I wish to prevent your daughter from studying with Jascha. Quite the contrary.
She should, of course, have the same opportunities that I myself had. It's just that—"
And his voice broke off. I already missed being called "Margie dear." I'd return to Erick Friedman someday though; this much I knew.
"It's just what?" asked my mother.
"Your daughter's not prepared. This is all premature."
My mother looked askance.
"What—what do you mean?"
Mr. Friedman turned to me. "Begin with a three-octave F Sharp Major scale in single notes, followed by arpeggios, then thirds, sixths, octaves, fingered octaves and tenths."
I propped the violin under my chin.
"You better dispense with that shoulder rest. Heifetz won't tolerate it."

The sudden irritation in Mr. Friedman's voice rattled my nerves. My hands turned cold. I unclasped the pad from the back of the violin and set it down in my case. I attacked the scale going up but fell apart on the way down, as my fingers stiffened.
"Again. Start from the top," Mr. Friedman ordered. I lingered on the first note.
"In tempo!" And he tapped against the piano lid which he had never done before.
I resumed the exercise and stumbled.
"You're going to play for Heifetz—like that?"
The tears came. My mother dug into her pocketbook for a hanky. I reached for it.
"We have much work to do," he growled. "I don't want another one of those phone calls from him."
I wiped the tears and blew into the hanky. "What do you mean?"
"I set up an audition for a former student of mine not long ago. And I warned her about the scale test. Oh, Jascha was perfectly polite to her, but me..."

Mr. Friedman began to pace more agitatedly, and thought aloud. "Imagine, I get a call at two in the morning. Half asleep, I pick up the phone. He doesn't even announce his name. Never does. I hear the familiar clipped speech. 'Erick', he says, 'you have no respect for me'. And he hangs up. Just like that. All because my student wasn't prepared—"
I heard my mother gasp. "My Margie'll be prepared! Don't you worry!"

Mr. Friedman persisted. "You'll see. The man is fantastically dedicated to perfection. He's a martinet when it comes to those scales."
"I know," I said through tears, as I recalled my audition from a few years ago.
"I have a theory, actually, that Heifetz's attitude toward scales is predicated on the need to reduce his own emotional tension. Inside, he's a seething volcano. But I learned to cope with this because I observed and analyzed his playing."
"Margie'll learn too," reassured my mother from across the room.
Mr. Friedman shook his head. "The shoulder surgery was unsuccessful. Heifetz can no longer lift his right arm to demonstrate. It's not the same, his playing; in fact, he can barely play at all. Your daughter won't have the benefit of analytical observation that I had."
My throat went dry. What a cruel fate for a concert violinist.

"He's not one to spoon feed his pupils, Marjorie. You'll find out. One time when I lifted the stand up in his studio to conform to my own height, he lowered it to the original height and said, 'It's fine for me.'"
Mr. Friedman paused.
"And if you're accepted into the class, but fail to meet his requirements at any time, you'll be out.  Students are dismissed at the slightest provocation, including romantic relationships. I felt as if I was living in a convent when I studied with him. What, I was supposed to be married to the violin? I'm going to turn into a monk all of a sudden?"
Words failed me.
"All right. I should have heeded his advice and not entered the Tchaikovsky Competition. He called me up, middle of the night, in that cryptic manner of his, and emphatically advised me not to go. 'Erick, you'll see what will happen there.  I'm warning you—' But I went to Moscow anyway at the insistence of David Oistrakh. I figured since Oistrakh was head of the jury and a friend—"
I gazed up again at the sketch of the Soviet violinist, and admired the likeness.
"That's a beautiful drawing," I muttered.

Ignoring my compliment, he continued. "Heifetz suspected that I was being set up by his detractors; after all, he was anti-Soviet, and they were anti-Heifetz. I was rather naive back then in the 60's. After the competition Heifetz phoned me. 'You see, Erick. I told you this would happen. You have no respect for me.'"
I bit down on my lower lip. It pained me to find my teacher so upset; I knew that having placed sixth in the Tchaikovsky Competition, at a time when he already had a concert career along with a recording contract, was a terrible setback.
"My relationship with Jascha was never the same after that," he confessed.
I looked up at Mr. Friedman, sensing the desperate yearning he felt for his mentor's validation. I wanted to throw my arms around my teacher. And, most urgently, I wanted to repair the trust that had been broken between Heifetz and him. I was determined to play a successful audition with scales backwards and forwards, if that's what it took.
"Always remember, Marjorie. A student grappling with difficulties is, to Jascha Heifetz, a contaminant; an infection to be gotten rid of."

At Carnegie Hall (Ch.14 Pt.2)

I'll always remember Erick Friedman's appearance at Carnegie Hall back in 1976. He performed three concertos in one evening with conductor Izler Solomon and the American Symphony Orchestra. I sat in parquet level sandwiched between my parents. We had spent the better part of the day in the car driving from Boston. My father planned his strategy of announcing my departure from Mr. Friedman's studio with cunning finesse. "Here's what I'm gonna tell him, Frances. It's not as if it's a lie. I'll be taking early retirement from Kransberg's Furniture and we'll be selling our mausoleum-of-a-house to move to a warm climate. Marjorie'll re-audition for Heifetz. Simple as that. Puff! A new life."
My mother heaved a long sigh. She knew that Erick Friedman had plans for me through college. During the past six months of lessons, we had merely skimmed the surface together.

I felt anguish at the thought of leaving Mr. Friedman's studio, not to mention being saddled with my parents just when I was about to start life on my own. But after my father had suffered months of depression and, for dramatic effect, threatened suicide by holding a kitchen knife to his throat, my mother begged me to continue my college studies where they could follow and begin their golden years. "We need to  stay together," she had cried. "Your father and I'd be lost without you. A change to the West Coast is our best hope as a family." And I sensed that she was afraid to be alone with my father; he was a string about to snap.

Isaac Stern

The orchestra was tuning on stage; throngs of audience members—young and old—took to their seats. I wondered how my teacher was coping with the fervor of the moment.  He had shared his conviction that violinist Isaac Stern, president of Carnegie Hall, was on a mission to destroy his solo career with an agenda to belittle Heifetz's teaching. Erick Friedman was collateral damage; a victim of Heifetz's foes, real or perceived. But one thing was for certain. Stern could make or break a career. He'd regularly travel to Israel and listen to young talented violinists. With glasses perched on top of his head, in an avuncular manner, he'd point and say, "You and you. Come to America." Those who were chosen became soloists; the ones left behind, and not chosen, would eventually become orchestra musicians.

Erick Friedman had covered the finances of booking Carnegie Hall, the American Symphony and the press coverage for two evenings of six concertos. He had invited us to the first of the two performances, with hopes that I'd learn from him how to conquer stage fright. The house quieted; the lights dimmed; out walked the concertmaster to tune the orchestra. My stomach knotted. And then my teacher, with the conductor trailing behind, strode on stage in his black tailcoat; his footsteps were bold and determined. He stood beside the conductor's podium and blew onto his curled fingers to warm his hands. He placed the violin and bow in his left hand and shook out his right, to help loosen. Then he switched his violin and bow to the right, and shook out the left hand. He leveled his gaze at the audience while slowly readying the instrument. I heard the rise and fall of my mother's breathing and my father's quiet belch.

The first concerto to be served was the Vieuxtemps Fifth. Mr. Friedman had taught me the composition down to the most subtle detail. "Balance the bow here, and let it bounce there," he had reminded patiently at lessons. "Find the sounding point and sustain. Bel canto as opposed to cantorial." At the concert, I observed as his bow arm, now poised above the strings, moved in broad, masterful strokes; the same strokes that he had imparted to me. I looked down and realized that my fingers were moving while he played. The passages were executed with fine-tuned precision, yet, at each extensive orchestral passage during the rests, Mr. Friedman cupped his hands and blew into them. I shivered. There must be a draft on stage, I thought to myself, and wished only to help.

Like a prize fighter, Erick Friedman completed one concerto, acknowledged the applause, and threw himself into the next. Sibelius was the second work to be featured that evening, and was performed with staggering virtuosity. The audience went into a frenzy with stomping and cheering.

We remained in our seats during intermission. My father nonchalantly unrolled a packet of Tums. My mother asked if I needed to use the bathroom, and I replied, "No". She asked my father if he needed a cigarette, and he said, "No". The two discussed the housing market in Wenham and began to quibble about an asking price. I studied my teacher's photograph in the Carnegie Hall booklet, and when nobody was looking, pressed it to my heart.

The Brahms Concerto had been programmed for the entire second half. Mr. Friedman appeared more at ease on stage. He no longer expelled warm breath onto his hands, and as a result, my own hands became warm. His tone conveyed a white heat intensity reminiscent of his master. At the conclusion of the Brahms, the audience rose to their feet. Applause surged. After a third curtain call, he quieted the house by raising his violin and turning to the audience. "I'd like to dedicate the second movement of the Korngold Concerto to my beloved teacher, Jascha Heifetz, the greatest violinist and influence in my life." And Korngold's lush melodies soared above the orchestra and floated into the proscenium.

The concert had ended. I watched helplessly as my father reached for his hat and coat. Couldn't the news of leaving Mr. Friedman wait? Perhaps this was not the best moment, as everyone else was rushing to congratulate the artist.
"C'mon. Follow me," my father said, eyes narrowed like a mobster. "We'll find our way backstage. Just do me a favor. Let me do all the talking—"

Erick Friedman (Ch.13 Pt.2)

My father placed a call to North Carolina School of the Arts to contact the master violinist, Erick Friedman, protégé of Jascha Heifetz. He was told that Mr. Friedman had left the institution and currently resided in New York City. My father followed every lead until he discovered the telephone number for the violinist. They had a polite conversation, I was later told. Mr. Friedman, who had been awarded the Mischa Elman Chair at the Manhattan School of Music in 1975, was more than receptive to having me among his pupils.

"He hasn't been teaching all that long due to his concertizing," I remember my father explaining on the way to Dairy Queen. "But he says that he enjoys working with young people, and has several talented students."
"Wonderful," said my mother. "She'll study with him at Manhattan School. Phew! To think we almost sent her to North Carolina."
"He told me that the lessons are to be in his apartment at One Lincoln Plaza. But she'll take her other music classes at the school. Frances, maybe Marjorie's old enough—at sixteen—to commute from Boston to New York by herself. Whaddaya say?"
My mother waved her arm. "No way."

Both my parents accompanied me to my first lesson. It was a Friday evening. I remember, because as the elevator opened to Erick Friedman's floor the entire hallway smelled of onions and pot roast for Shabbos. "This is a very Jewish building with, obviously, a lot of money," whispered my mother. "You can tell by the names on the doors." She pointed to each and rattled them off as we marched in single file: "Goldberg, Finkelshteyn, Weinberger, Greitzer, Rosen, Altschuler, oh and here we are—Friedman! Marjorie. Go ahead and knock at the door of your artist teacher."

I was about to press the buzzer when it suddenly thrust open. There, in front of my eyes, stood a strapping mustached man with long sideburns dressed in a sleek, blue, smoking jacket and jeans. His chest, so broad and thick, was covered with a nest of black curly hair. A gold chain with a mezuzah dangled from his neck almost down to his navel, which was exposed by the loose jacket. Friedman looked me up and down, and said in a smooth bass baritone voice, "Welcome, Marjorie." My mother gasped. My father extended his hand. "John Kransberg. Good to meet you." I could hear my father snort. "I hope you don't mind my asking. How'd you manage to get so—ah, handsome?"
Mr. Friedman laughed gently and took one step back.
"No, really. I wanna know your secret. I'm sure my wife Frances wouldn't mind."
"Won't you come in?" He asked calmly.

"You must be married," chirped my mother. She seemed to flutter into the posh pad, decorated with objets d'art and numerous framed photographs. For this occasion, she had donned her blond Eva Gabor wig, typically taken out during holidays only.
"I'm not—"
"No?" quizzed my mother. "Not married? Why, of course. You're still young. Are you even thirty?"
"Thirty-six."
"Then you're twenty years older than our Marjorie." She sucked in her cheek and narrowed her gaze. "You'll need someone to take care of you. Such an important person, you are."
There was an uncomfortable silence, as we stood gaping at one another. I scanned the walls and noticed several sketches of female nudes. I'd eventually learn that Mr. Friedman was an accomplished artist, having taught himself to draw. Resting curvaceously on top of the grand piano were two of his famed violins: "Ludwig" Stradivari and "Balokovic" Guarneri del Gesù.
"Please. Allow me to take your coats."
He reached to assist me with my red leather jacket. I felt the tug of his large warm hands and watched as he folded the coat and laid it gently on a chair.

"May I offer you drinks, Mr. and Mrs. Kransberg?" Mr. Friedman gestured to a liquor cart in the corner. "You've traveled from so far—"
"That won't be necessary," said my father, finally settling on a black sofa near a large potted plant, and signaling for my mother to join him. "Jeez, Erick—may I call you Erick?—You're a big guy. You must be, what, six-foot-three? Four?"
Mr. Friedman smiled. He had dimples. "Too tall for playing the violin. That's what I am."
My father nodded with delight, and a Yiddish expression fell from his lips. "Kenahora."

"You know, for some strange reason. I can't put my finger on it—" Mr. Friedman paused mid-sentence and shook his head.
"You—you remind me of my own parents. It's uncanny; a trick of fate."
He shot me a glance. "History repeats itself, Marjorie. One thing I've learned over the years."
I looked down and began to unzip my violin case slowly.
"What would you like to play for me, Dear? So that you to feel at ease."
I rosined my bow and lifted several books of music from the side pocket, sensing an urge to conquer this man's heart.

Mr. Friedman strode to his Steinway and sat down on the bench. I surreptitiously gazed at his hairy, open-sandaled feet. They were monstrously huge.
"Well," I said at last. "I'm trying out for the Boston Symphony Young Artist Competition in a couple of weeks with the Paganini Concerto. But I also have the Mozart Concerto in D."
I glanced up and couldn't help but notice Mr. Friedman's paternal gaze. At the piano, with stacks of sheet music and scores by his side, his demeanor had turned reverential, his voice tender.
"Boston Symphony Competition. Really? Let me hear that Paganini of yours, Sweetheart."

At Juilliard (Ch.10 Pt.2)

I had waited and waited for my 8 A.M. lesson before I heard the Juilliard elevator doors open, and Miss DeLay emerged onto the fifth floor. "Sugarplum," she gasped from the corridor. "Sorry to be late. I'm on my way." I could hear the swish of her one-size-fits-all skirt. I glanced up at Miss DeLay, who I thought bore a striking resemblance to Shelley Winters from The Poseidon Adventure.


This was the way it had been for the past six months; each lesson delayed. Instead of the student with a litany of excuses, it was the teacher.
"I got stuck in traffic," she said this time. "There was a truck with a wide load and it clogged the artery."
I looked up at her askance.  
Miss DeLay unlocked her studio door and I followed inside. She switched on the lights, and opened the side closet. She then pulled out a machine. "Listen," Miss DeLay said. It was Heifetz playing the final movement of the Mendelssohn in dazzling perfection. I nodded with recognition.
"Now, again; same passage." She slowed the speed to a half.
The Heifetz sheen turned to low warbles. "The vibrato is continuous. So, you see, Dearie, Heifetz vibrates in fast passages, although it's inaudible to the listener. A secret revealed by technology."
I stifled a yawn and thought, "So what?"
Miss DeLay sat down. The sofa wheezed underneath her. She lifted a stop watch from the coffee table and adjusted her reading glasses. "Let's clock him against a few others."

I wasn't sure where the lesson was going but felt comfortable with Miss DeLay's easy manner. She had timed Heifetz, Oistrakh, Francescatti, Menuhin and Stern to compare tempi, and penciled the markings in her score. Jascha Heifetz emerged as the speediest; Menuhin the slowest. "Heifetz sounds impressive on recordings, doesn't he? But in a large auditorium, faster sounds slower, and slower faster. Too fast, and you won't hear the notes. Slower, but with clarity, the result is impressive. Speed is illusory. When did you say your performance of the Mendelssohn will be, Margaret?"
"Margie," I corrected. "I'll be playing it in a couple of weeks."
"Where dear? I've forgotten."
"In Kansas, with the City Symphony."
"That's right," said Miss DeLay with a smile. "Mention Kansas and I become nostalgic. That's where I grew up—in Medicine Lodge."
"You don't say," I replied with feigned interest.
She stared out of the window as if recalling a former life. 
"All right, Sweetie. Let's start today with the second movement to get warmed up."
I agreed, but was secretly eager for the lesson to conclude. In another twenty minutes, I'd be at orchestra rehearsal with my best friends, violinists Elena Barere and Heidi Carney, sharing gossip and Jujubes at the break. I imagined that if I could just fart through the Mendelssohn my teacher would be delighted, for Dorothy DeLay was patience personified.


I played the opening phrase. "Add a few more calories to that sound; make it rich and chocolaty," Miss DeLay suggested after about eight bars. "Otherwise the audience won't hear the solo line."
Yes, I nodded.
"Don't forget, Mary. Tune higher, or sharp to the oboe, for projection."
I looked at her incredulously.
"We have to get your sound to cut through the orchestra. Press more into the strings with the bow."
I flicked my long, brown hair impatiently.
"Oh, I hope you do that on stage, too."
"What?"  
"Your hair. Show it off; be dramatic."
"You mean," I groped for words. "I don't need to pull it away from my face?" My mother swept my hair into a high ponytail for concerts, and I hated it.
"Oh, Heavens no!" said Miss DeLay. "If you've got it, flaunt it. You'll excite your audience that way."


It began to register that Dorothy DeLay's method of stage deportment for her students was the inverse of Heifetz. While Heifetz had insisted on a statuesque pose devoid of distractions and mannerisms, DeLay encouraged her students to move with the music.
"Sugarplum. Have you read any of Stanislavsky's works?"
 "No," I replied. "Who's he?"  
"Konstantin Stanislavsky was a great Russian actor and director of the Moscow Art Theater. I think you'd find his writing insightful, at least I do. You could begin with any of Stanislavsky's books, but I'd recommend On the Art of the Stage. Everything he writes about acting and theater is applicable to a musician. You must remember, that you're an actress with your violin."


I started the concerto again. My fingers felt leaden after the long bus ride from Boston. It took a while before I could get into the flow and channel the composer. As I tapped into my creative powers, imagining myself in a dramatic role, the nasty double-stops in the mid-section of the Mendelssohn came off with ease. I swayed with the music and pressed the bow deep into the strings with unfettered freedom. I glanced at Miss DeLay for approval. Her head had slumped forward; her eyes were closed. Light snoring provided a steady accompaniment. After I finished, Miss DeLay's eyelids flickered open. She lifted her head and aimed a groggy gaze in my direction. I waited for those priceless words; how to become a better violinist, performer, musician, actress.
"Good girl, Margo. Wonderful lesson today."

Dorothy DeLay © Peter Schaaf

Prelude to DeLay (Ch.11 Pt.1)

My father, accused of all sorts of wrong doings by my mother, sat in our living room in his Hanes boxers. He picked up the phone after my mother's prodding, and telephoned the famed pedagogue, Dorothy DeLay at Juilliard. My mother stood with her arms folded. I eavesdropped from the kitchen doorway. After finally getting through to Miss DeLay, he introduced himself as the father of a promising, young violinist who had studied for the past three years with Sally Thomas on Honorary Scholarship at Juilliard and Meadowmount, soloed with the Boston Pops under Harry Ellis Dickson, and had recently been offered a conditional acceptance into the Heifetz Masterclass. My father may have been tone deaf but he had perfect sales pitch.

"You  see, Miss DeLay—do you mind if I share a bit of background? Our fourteen-year-old violinist, Marjorie, is a sensitive, sensitive youngster. You give her one harsh look, a look that signals dissatisfaction with her work, and she'll begin to cry. That former teacher of hers—I mean no disrespect—I'm sure you're friends and all that, but—" He lowered his voice. I thought I heard my father say, "colder than a nun's navel. And if my daughter's gonna have to leave Juilliard on account of her, it won't be for anyone other than Heifetz. But she'd love nothing more than to return to Juilliard and study with you."

I edged my way into the living room to witness my father's performance. As far as I was concerned, he could have won an Oscar for the deft handling of an internationally renowned pedagogue.
He pointed to me and then to his forehead, as if to say, listen and learn. He was about to prove his intellectual prowess and business acumen. "That's right. I couldn't have this kind of conversation with her as I'm having with you."
My mother stroked his arm for encouragement.

"I'm gonna let you in on a secret, Miss DeLay." My father leaned over the secretary desk and distractedly picked up a ballpoint pen to doodle in the phone book. "Marjorie and my beautiful wife, Frances, hop onto the 2 A.M. Greyhound Bus on Saturdays in Boston and arrive in time for an 8:00 lesson at Juilliard. And I drive them to the bus terminal every week to see them off for the five hour commute. How's that for dedication?"
He nodded enthusiastically. I couldn't make out Miss DeLay's response, even as I crept closer to my father. The scent of Old Spice tickled my nostrils, and I was about to sneeze.
"Is that right, Miss DeLay? You have a young violin student by the name of David Kim who flies in from South Carolina with his mother two times a week? Wait till I tell my wife, Frances. Oh, you're gonna enjoy Frances! You know, she plays the violin too. An amateur, she calls herself, but I think my Frances is a virtuoso."
My mother's hands flew to her mouth as she stifled a laugh. "Your father," she whispered to me.

"Now my next question, Miss DeLay: Will our Marjorie need to audition for you?"
My father shook his head, no, to signal Miss DeLay's response, and waved his finger for us to keep still.
"You do, huh. You remember Marjorie's performance of the Bruch Concerto. Yes, that's right. She was runner-up for the Juilliard Pre-College solo competition last year. Oh, what a fantastic memory you have, Miss DeLay. How do you manage to remember all those marvelous students from around the world? Frances tells me that you teach violinists all the way from Israel and the Soviet Union. They arrive at the school in droves! When I tell my little girl, Marjorie, that she's now a Dorothy DeLay pupil and will be returning to Juilliard, I'll bet you anything she'll head straight to her violin."

When the telephone interview had ended, my mother cheered "bravo." She wrapped her arms around my father and reached for a kiss. He pulled her down to his lap. As I stood and watched with amazement—were these my parents?—my mother shot me a glance.
"Go practice, Marjorie Jill. Time is of the essence."

L.A. Blues (Ch.10 Pt.3)

"I'll have a refill," my mother said to the waitress with a red-haired bee-hive at Bob's Big Boy.

"I just filled the cup, ma'am, just a moment ago."

"But, it's cold." My mother looked up from the table in desperation.

"Here you go." The waitress poured the remaining coffee from the carafe until it spilled over into the saucer.  

"My scrambled eggs?"

"Out any minute."

"Thank you. Remember, no butter on the toast. Dry. I'm counting calories. And please. Don't let those eggs get too hard."
"Okey Dokey." She gave my mother a once over.
"Because I like them fluffy."

The waitress cast a sidelong glance at me.

"How 'bout you, honey. Can you hang on a few minutes for that tuna melt?"

I picked up the water glass and sipped slowly.

We had spent the month of July in Los Angeles. After each violin lesson we stopped at Bob's Big Boy Restaurant for the Early Bird Special. Weeks one, two, and three, my mother listened with rapt attention as I recounted my lessons with Claire Hodgkins, the endless scale work and repetitions of countless etudes, including the first study in Dont Opus 35, a real knuckle breaker. Miss Hodgkins had suggested we visit Ben Rosen's Music Store to pick up the Hřimaly Scale Studies. Rosen's shop, Globe Music, was a dilapidated house on Western Avenue filled with sheet music stacked from floor to ceiling. We fawned over the new books during dinner the way normal people do with babies. We had bought the two volume Joachim-Moser edition of J.S. Bach's Six Solo Sonatas and Partitas, Hřimaly Scales, and Leopold Auer's Graded Course Book 7. When my mother complained to Ben Rosen that I had difficulty learning scales in double stops, the octogenarian pointed with his shriveled fingers to the back pages of the Auer. "There," he snapped. His misaligned false teeth added staccato to each word.  "This is what your daughter needs. Like Auer, like Heifetz. Farshteyst?" And the two landsmen, my mother and Mr. Rosen, completed the transaction in Yiddish.

But by week four, my mother lost interest with my studies and had one obsession: my father's whereabouts.  

John and Harry Kransberg

"He doesn't answer the phone," she said dejectedly. "I call the furniture business. I get Uncle Harry. I say, Harry, where's Johnnie? You know what Harry says to me?"

I shook my head. French fries were just around the corner. I sniffed with anticipation.

"He has the nerve to say that your father's making deliveries."

"Maybe Daddy is. It's not implausible." 

"Margie. That's what your father hires movers for—for deliveries. I hear Uncle Harry's nervous giggle whenever I phone. He's protecting his youngest brother. 'You're worrying for nothing, Frances,' says Harry. He's a character, your Uncle Harry. Something's off. Those two can't be trusted. You know, the Kransberg men are vilde khayim."
"They're what?"
"Like wild animals. I never told you this before because you were too young, but now that you're fourteen, I'm going to tell you. I found your father's eldest brother Sam one night after business hours—"

She buried her face in her hands and let out a painful, "Oy!"

"OK, Ladies! Here you go."

The waitress plunked our dishes on the table. The mound of fries on my plate was staggering. 

 "More coffee?" asked my mother, anxiously tapping her cup.

The waitress spun on her heels and left. 

My mother continued. "Marjorie. I call the house. The phone rings and rings. Nobody picks up. Where can your father be? All hours of the night, yet."

"I dunno, Mom." I wasn't concerned about my father at that moment. I squirted ketchup all over my fries. Culinary Heaven. The crisp sourdough of my sandwich oozed with a buttery blend of melted albacore tuna and layers of sharp, cheddar cheese on a bed of Iceberg lettuce, tomato, and dill pickle. I alternated between sandwich and fry, sandwich and fry, in a Tempo agitato.  

My mother joylessly nibbled on her egg. She surrendered her fork to the plate, and drained the coffee cup in slow, steady gulps, as if fighting back tears.
"Do you really like it here in Los Angeles?"
I shrugged.
"Don't you miss our beautiful home on Lord's Hill and life with father? I know he's kvetchy at times but that's him."

I missed the Meadowmount School of Music in New York. It was my first summer away, after three years of having been a camper there. It dawned on me, though my stomach was now about to burst with tuna and fries, that a year ago, I had been placed in solitary confinement for sneaking into the boys' dorms with my friends, Jackie and Felicia, in the middle of the night. The three of us had gotten caught by some whistle blower at Main House—the house mother? Anyway, old man Galamian lost an entire night's sleep on account of us. Punishment meted out was severe: one week of solitary confinement in our rooms except for meals accompanied by kitchen staff, and a threat of dismissal if we broke any more rules. But, heck, it was our claim to fame at Meadowmount. I had won the admiration of the cutest boys and star players:  Chin Kim, Lynn Chang, YoYo Ma, Robert Portney, Daniel Phillips, and Gil Morgenstern. Gosh, Meadowmount was the Land of Plenty, I thought.

My mother leaned closer from across the table and whispered. "When that waitress hands us the bill, follow me closely and walk out quickly."

"Why, Mom?" I could barely raise myself from the booth after stuffing myself, let alone a brisk walk.

"Firstly, I'm not tipping, and secondly, I need to reach your father. We're not staying; no way. Maybe when you're old enough for college, but that'll be another story."

Sturm und Drang (Ch.10 Pt.1)

A week after my audition with Jascha Heifetz for his masterclass, my mother has difficulty sleeping. She paces the house during all hours of the night. I can hear her rapid footsteps back and forth, back and forth downstairs in the kitchen, as she fixes tea and rummages through papers. She wanders up the circular stairs to my bedroom, peeks under my four poster canopy, and whispers, "Margie, are you awake?"
I pretend to be half-asleep. "What is it?"
There's a stack of make-up homework to complete with finals looming. All year, despite my absences due to  concerts, I've kept my grades up and even made it to the Honor Roll at Memorial. But I'm exhausted. I haven't had a decent night's rest since reading "The Exorcist" on the return flight from Los Angeles. The idea of demonic possession terrifies me, and I imagine the bed quakes when it's only me trembling.
"Can I sleep here? Your father snores."
"Come on," I whisper, and throw back the comforter. I don't want to admit this, but I'm grateful to have my mother in bed with me.

Indecision plagues her, and I'm the only listener. "I think it would be foolish to turn down Heifetz's offer."
I yawn. I'm used to my mother talking in circles, which I consider a form of data processing, or mental regurgitation. She strokes my hair and rubs my back. "But how do I break the news to your father? To relocate to Los Angeles? It won't be easy, Margie. But you're too young to go alone. If you were seventeen or eighteen, maybe, but a girl turning fourteen? No," she answers herself. "You need parents, or at least, you need me."

My eyelids close and I feel content. The teachers at Memorial treat me as a celebrity. The performance at Tri-State Music Festival and meeting with Heifetz are being featured in the weekend edition of the Boston Globe. I've become a  local star of the North-Shore, and bask in the attention. If we move to L.A., I might attend Hollywood Professional School, just like the Brady Bunch kids, and hopefully, become a famous artist one day. But more than anything, I want to please my mother. I wrap my arms around her slender waist, and inhale the lingering scent of  lavender tea. I drift off. By the time my father awakens me for school, my mother has returned to her own bed.

My father's morning routine consists of fixing himself a bowl of Kellogg's Bran Buds for breakfast and black coffee to keep regular. While he relieves himself, I tend to my mother. I tiptoe to her bedside, lower my face to hers, brush the thin wisps of hair from her forehead, and give her a kiss. She opens her eyes, and drowsily lifts her head.
"Tonight, I'll tell him...I promise." Her head sinks back into the pillow.

***

After work my father loosens his tie, and flings it over the living room armchair, and talks about his day at the business. He reaches for the bottle of Scotch tucked away in the liquor cabinet. The furniture movers dropped an armoire on a delivery to nearby Marblehead, and laughed as it rolled out of the truck. The customers watched with horror and demanded their money back.
"Morons, those movers," my father fumes after a swig of Scotch. "I've had it." His hands are shaking. "And to think that I lost two more clients today."
He thunders into the kitchen and eyes the dining table.

"What's for supper, Frances, I'm starving. Don't tell me that you spent the entire afternoon listening to Marjorie's practicing—"
"Margie," my mother darts me a glance. I'm standing with the violin tucked under my arm. I've been playing  "Nigun" (Improvisation) from Bloch's "Baal Shem Suite" in the living room for hours, discovering the pleasures of rhapsodic, cantorial nuances and expressive phrasing. I've discovered agogic accents.
"Go finish your music while I talk to your father."

I obediently climb the stairs to my room, leave the door ajar, and lean against the doorway to eavesdrop. My heart races. This is not an ideal moment to confront my father with a relocation or a vague future as a concert artist. I know that I should try to warn my mother; the storm clouds are about to burst.

"You wanna do what, Frances?" I hear my father pound the kitchen table with his fist."You expect me to just up and leave Kransberg's Furniture because of some asshole violinist? Who pays the bills? I'm gonna work for somebody else in a different location where I have no contacts, and start from scratch? Have you lost touch with reality?"
My mother tries to assuage him with a voice of cool reserve, like a school teacher with an unruly student. "Take another drink, John. Have a cigarette. Calm down. It would be in Marjorie's best interest—for her career—to work with Jascha Heifetz."
"You're tearing this family apart, Frances," he yells. "You're killing me with these never-ending demands. This teacher, that teacher. Boston, New York, now Los Angeles. Sell the house. Leave the business. Look, how my hands shake!"

I ready my violin and bow to drown out their escalating voices. Accusations and threats ricochet off the walls. I realize, with sudden remorse, that I'm the cause of this battle. I skip the movement entitled "Simchas Torah" (Rejoice) and begin the plaintive cries of "Vidui" (Contrition). At the caesura, I'm startled by a terrifying clamor: the shattering of glass followed by a piercing scream. I toss the violin on my bed and flee down the winding staircase. My legs feel like elastic bands. The front door slams just as I reach the landing. There, in the middle of the kitchen floor, is my mother sprawled amidst shards of broken china, sobbing hysterically.

photo of my parents and me in the Boston Globe

Conditional Acceptance (Ch.9 Pt.3)

Mrs. Reynold was assigned the task of relaying Jascha Heifetz's edict to my mother, as the great violinist refused to have anything to do with parents of prospective students. She pulled up a wooden chair next to my mother while I stood quietly in the corner. I folded my arms around the violin case, and felt the lingering effects of an adrenaline buzz from my audition.

"Mr. Heifetz wishes to relay that your daughter, Marjorie, has more than her share of musical talent."
My mother's chest heaved as she emitted a long, grateful sigh. "Oh, thank goodness. This is what I've tried to tell my husband, John, over and over again. You know, sometimes he thinks I'm a little nutty for pushing our daughter."
"Yes, well, lack of talent is not the issue, Mrs. Kransberg."
My mother inclined forward, the way a deaf person might do to read lips.
Mr. Heifetz's assistant persevered. "Your daughter has an excellent chance of being accepted into the class—as early as the fall—but Mr. Heifetz has stipulated certain conditions."
 "Oh," said my mother. Her back stiffened. "What are the conditions?"
Mrs. Reynolds shot me a glance.

"Well, for one, Marjorie's performance engagements must be canceled. Absolutely. No more concerts at this time, at least for the duration of her studies here."
"Pardon me?" asked my mother. She pointed to her right ear hidden underneath the nylon wig. "I seem to have a little trouble hearing these days, Mrs. Reynolds. Could you repeat what you just said, and speak a bit louder?"
"Why, certainly, Mrs. Kransberg."
 Mrs. Reynolds raised her voice to a mezzo forte, and wagged her finger.
"No more concerts at this time for your Marjorie. She's far too young, and might be at risk for the devastating consequences of exploitation."
"What about solo competitions and youth orchestral programs?"
Mrs. Reynolds shook her head, no.
"Summer music camps?"
"Mr. Heifetz will not allow them. They get in the way of proper training."
My mother clutched her navy blue pocketbook, now cluttered with pamphlets and brochures, and groped for words. "Thank you for that information."
"There's more," said Mrs. Reynolds.

"If your Marjorie is serious about joining the class, she'll need to first work with Mr. Heifetz's assistant, Claire Hodgkins, over the entire summer. Ms. Hodgkins will teach her the scale routine that Mr. Heifetz insists all students learn, along with etudes, caprices, solo Bach, and perhaps some stylistic short pieces. But it may be a task to erase those dreadful mannerisms, Mrs. Kransberg, and have Marjorie adjust to playing without the crutch of a shoulder pad. I should add that everything, including the Kreutzer Etudes, must be perfectly memorized."
"Claire Hodgkins, Claire Hodgkins," said my mother, fingering her golden wig. "Where do I know that name? It sounds so familiar—"
"Well," said Mrs. Reynolds. "Claire was one of Mr. Heifetz's first pupils, along with Carol Sindell, Varoujan Kodjian, Adam Gorski, and Erick Friedman. You may have heard and watched her on the masterclass episodes which were aired on public television."
"Oooh," said my mother. "Is she tall and slim with blond hair?"
"That's her," said Mrs. Reynolds with a nod. "Claire performed Chausson's 'Poeme' on the series."
"I was quite taken with her," said my mother. "A beautiful woman. She's so slender, and her playing is understated in its elegance."
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Reynolds. There was a pause as my mother pondered Jascha Heifetz's requirements.

"Now, Mrs. Kransberg, I know you have a great deal of thinking to do. The masterclass meets twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays. The sessions are lengthy—five hours each. If your daughter makes it into the class after Claire's approval, she'll need to attend a unique school, or alternative program, where she can work independently. I have some resources for you to look into, such as the Hollywood Professional School. I must warn you, however, that Marjorie might possibly be the youngest of the eight or ten students. The others in the class are college age and older. Your family may need to relocate, yes? So, I expect you'll need to confer with your husband."
My mother nodded in agreement. I couldn't make out what she said about my father, as she lowered her voice.
"But what a wonderful experience to look forward to, assuming all goes well," said Mrs. Reynolds.

My mother peered over her glasses and cast a cautious glance at me and then Mrs. Reynolds. How might she broach the topic of relocation with my father, and avert a temper tantrum?
"Tell me more about your husband, Mrs. Kransberg. What does he desire for his daughter's future?"

Claire Hodgkins in Heifetz Masterclass in 1960s

 .

Thank You, Mr. Heifetz (Ch.9 Pt.2)

To the degree that I was familiar with the Mendelssohn Concerto, I had no option but to give it my best shot at Heifetz's insistence for a spontaneous hearing. Although my teacher at Juilliard forbade me to study the concerto prematurely, I would play it by ear whenever possible, and read through the score with delightful anticipation. I was especially inspired  after watching and listening to the twelve-year-old child prodigy violinist, Lilit Gampel with Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops, performing the entire Mendelssohn Concerto live on television.

I surprised myself at the audition. When I reached a point about halfway down the first page of the finale, where I could no longer conjure up the notes, I laughed at my mistakes. I glanced up at Heifetz seated behind his large desk with a score in front of him, and noticed the glint in his eyes.
"Not bad," he said. "You're not untalented."
"Thank you," I replied, figuring that those words from Heifetz were meant to be a compliment.
"You wanted to play the Rondo Capriccioso for me, so go ahead."

The nervousness had almost completely abated. I closed my eyes tight, flicked my hair, and dug into the Saint-Saëns. For heightened effect, I clicked my heels against the floor during a frightfully difficult up bow staccato passage. I didn't miss a beat, and reveled in my own performance. I had performed the composition so many times in public, that it felt as if I could toss it off in my sleep. I pulled out all the stops with a repertoire of grimaces and gyrations that I had inherited from Juilliard and Meadowmount students.

Jascha Heifetz tapped the TV antennae for me to stop.

He paused. "Are you an actress or a violinist?"  

I had no idea how to reply."What?"
"Do you wish to become an actress?"
I looked at him quizzically.

"Tut, tut. For a rather nice looking girl, you certainly make yourself unattractive with all those terrible faces. You might consider saving the theatrics for the dramatic stage."

I felt suddenly self-conscious. The bodily gestures, contortions, and facial expressions were purely for show; an entertainer's bag of tricks.

"Your grimaces, not to mention grunting and heel clicking, is nothing more than a distraction, and it detracts from your performance. You don't have to see your own horrible faces, but I do, or the audience does. The music will speak for itself. But, if you wish to act on stage, that's another thing all together. Who knows? You might be successful."

Thank you, was all I could manage to mutter.

"You have temperament," he added.
"Is that OK?" I asked sheepishly.
"You cannot be a performing artist without it. There would be no point in making music."
It would be revealed to me later, that like his own teacher Auer, Heifetz had no tolerance for anemic or unimaginative playing. Temperament was the artist's life blood.
"Thank you," I said, feeling slightly better. I waited for the next acerbic observation, but found myself enjoying being at the center of attention. How many kids from Memorial Middle School in Beverly, Massachusetts could boast the honor of playing for Jascha Heifetz?

"What's that contraption?"

"What?" I had no idea what he was alluding to. "Attached to the violin. That hardware."

"Oh, you mean this?" I pointed to my shoulder rest, a bulky black pad, fastened underneath the violin with rubber-coated, metal clasps. I had never played without one.

"Yes, that. Why do you need such a thing?" He looked querulously.

"I—I have a long neck, and it offers support?" I ended with a question, intentionally, and wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt.

"You're not exactly a giraffe. Except for those horrible faces while you play, you appear, to me at least, a normal girl with a normal neck. You know that contraption, too, is a distraction as it takes away the beauty of the violin. It dampens the sound. Did you ever think of that?"

I shook my head, no.

"I'll bet it leaves marks on your violin."

I lifted the shoulder rest, and sure enough, there were tiny scratches from the clasps.

"You see?" he said. "If you must have something there for added security, use a cloth, but be discreet."

I fumbled with the shoulder rest, not knowing what else to do.

"I'll hear a scale now—G# Minor, first in single notes followed by thirds, sixths, octaves, fingered octaves, and tenths."

 I hadn't practiced a daily regimen of scales in years, not since private studies with Sarah Scriven, and was at a loss for a reliable fingering pattern. I got tangled halfway up the sharp-ridden scale, and couldn't navigate my way back down. I slid into home base with a wobbly G#.

An awkward silence filled the room.  

"Come on," Heifetz said, tapping the TV antennae. "You can do better than that, I hope. And then I expect the same scale in double-stops, beginning with the thirds."

I drew a blank.

"I don't have all the time in the world, you know. Not at my age, anyway."
I suspected that I had failed the audition right then and there, from lack of preparation with the dreaded scales. I couldn't continue any longer.

 Heifetz put down the antennae and leveled a stern gaze, but his voice remained calm.
"Scales are the foundation of technique. They are to the violinist as calisthenics to an athlete. If you find yourself with little practice time on a busy day—that is, if you're hurried for some reason—the scales are a necessary requirement to stay in condition. They are to be practiced daily before anything else. Agreed?"

"Yes," I agreed, dejectedly. "Thank you."

Jascha Heifetz rose from his desk. "That will be enough for today. Thank you and good-bye."

My audition for the Heifetz Master Class had ended.

As I recalled my mother's instructive to offer respect and gratitude in the face of a critique, I said thank you in a somewhat affected voice.
Heifetz responded with an impersonation of my high-pitched thank you.
I laughed and packed up my violin. "Thank you again," I said without flinching.
"Thank you, thank you. I think we've thanked each other enough all ready." He reached for the door. "I'll have a word with my secretary, Mrs. Reynolds, and she will speak with your mother—"

"Yes," I said, as I edged away from the famous classroom at Clark House, and headed downstairs with the words, thank you Mr. Heifetz, on my lips.

First Audition for Heifetz (Ch9 Pt.1)

My mother had viewed several episodes of The Heifetz Masterclass on national public television in the 60's. The legendary violinist was filmed live in session with his pupils at the Clark House on the premises of University of Southern California. Before the documentaries were aired, little was known about Jascha Heifetz, the pedagogue. How did he relate to students? What teaching methods, if any, did he use? Heifetz, the performing artist, was sometimes perceived by the public as being cold and aloof. What was he like as a mentor?

"A masterclass is such a useful idea," my mother said, as we walked towards Clark House, located off West Adams in Los Angeles. Her heels clicked against the pavement with every determined step. "Students learn not only from the master, but from one another—clever."

I felt a twinge of anxiety, but not the dread of stage fright, as I often did before playing concerts.

"When you audition for Jascha Heifetz, give it your all."

"I will."

"Don't be shy."

"I won't."

"Show him how appreciative—"

"I get it, Mom."

"Thirteen year olds," my mother said, exasperated. "You think you know everything. But if the professor corrects you, say thank you. Always be grateful for constructive criticism. That's how you better yourself." 

Inside Clark House, a spacious Victorian mansion, we were greeted by Mrs. Reynolds, Heifetz's secretary. She led us upstairs to the famous studio, and explained to my mother that Jascha Heifetz forbid parents to attend classes and auditions. He had been barraged with requests through the years by pushy parents to promote their offspring, and he adamantly refused to have anything to do with them. My mother appeared to understand, as she nodded in compliance, but I could read the disappointment on her face.

  

I stepped into the commodious room, lined with chairs against the wall. I slowly unpacked my violin and rosined my bow. After a few moments of warming up, Mrs. Reynolds opened the door.

In she walked with Jascha Heifetz. He looked older than I had imagined, but the artist was, after all, in his seventies.
"This is Marjorie Kransberg, Mr. Heifetz. She's thirteen years old."
"Hello," said Heifetz, as he strode to his desk in the center of the room.
"The essay?"
"It is here," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to the lined notebook paper on top of a neat pile.
"Thank you."
And she left.
  

"What brings you here?"asked Mr. Heifetz.
I stared at him, in awe. I had studied his face on record jackets and books, right down to the bags under his eyes.
"What can I do for you?"
 "Well—I'd like to—to play for you."

Jascha Heifetz glanced over my essay, a requirement for an audition with him. I felt pangs of guilt for having copied my mother's words in my own hand. But with her incessant demand for perfection, she had left me little choice. I was supposed to have written about my previous history, and my musical goals.
"You played a concert recently—it says here."
"Yes." I flicked my long brown hair away from my face. The room felt increasingly warm.
"Well, how did it go?" He looked up. His icy blue eyes cast a penetrating gaze.

"Um. Fine, I guess." In spite of a burst of adrenalin, and frustration with Mr. Müller's beat, the Tri-State Music Festival concert had been declared a success. More solo engagements and invitations were to follow. "The audience liked my playing," I said.

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

 "How do you know?"
"Well, they stood up."
 Heifetz narrowed his eyes, and studied my face.

"Were they in a hurry to leave?"
His voice remained calm, though his words stung.

"What?"

"Did you ever think, perhaps, your audience was just plain relieved that your performance had ended?"

I giggled uncomfortably. A silence ensued.

"Maybe they were grateful it was over—your playing, that is."

 "I hadn't thought of that," I muttered.

"Or perhaps, the listeners needed to stretch their legs. That can happen, too. You didn't think about that, did you?"
"N-no."

I was taken aback. But then, even though I was young, I recognized that Heifetz's comments were meant to plummet me back to earth; a child performer could easily suffer from a swelled head after receiving adulation from both public and press. I was to learn years later, that Heifetz had a keen sense for people. He could sniff conceit and insincerity, and put those who suffered from such maladies in their proper places, at once, with words as weapons.

Mr. Heifetz lifted my essay again from his desk, and put on his reading glasses. "Do you recognize this hand-writing?"
I nodded. He pursued the interrogation.
"This paper belonged to you?"
"Yes."

"You write something about a bow—grip." And he repeated the word grip with obvious displeasure. "What's the problem? Are you confused?"

"I don't know. I mean, I guess."
Awkward silence.
"I'm not sure if I hold the bow correctly," I blurted, finally.

I felt like an idiot. My mother included a query about right hand technique. The violinist's supple bow arm is to a violinist as breath control to a singer. And she recognized that, though the Galamian approach had its own aesthetic appeal, the disciples of Leopold Auer from the Russian school of violin playing, such as Jascha Heifetz and Mischa Elman, had a vastly superior sound, style and virtuosity. Mother and daughter were both confused on this subject.

"What have you been doing all these years?"

I paused. "What do you mean?"

"Do you hold the bow or not?"

"I do, yes, of course."

"With your fingers?"

I nodded.

"Because you could attempt holding it with your toes. Have you tried that?"
I fumbled for an answer.

"So. What would you like to play? Assuming, of course, that you can figure out how to hold onto your bow."

"I—I would like to play the 'Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso' by Camille Saint-Saëns."

He drummed his fingers on the desk with an expression of boredom.
"I'd like to hear the Mendelssohn Concerto in E Minor, final movement."

 I wiped my hands on my tight-waisted, navy blue skirt, and took a deep breath. I hadn't yet learned the Mendelssohn. I loved the piece, though, especially the Heifetz rendition. I had practically worn out the LP by playing it over and over again on the Hi-Fi. And I had viewed the film, "They Shall Have Music" with my parents. Heifetz had made a rare cameo appearance in that movie, performing both the Saint-Saëns and the Mendelssohn with a youth orchestra. I shed tears as I followed the plight of a little boy who had run away from home, and ended up at a music school for poor children. When the school suffered hard times, and faced possible closure, the boy enlisted the aid of Heifetz. The violinist performed a benefit concert, saved the school, and was a hero.

"Hello?" Heifetz leaned forward at his desk. "Anybody there?"
"I'm sorry. I haven't learned the Mendelssohn," I said. "My teacher at Juilliard says it's too difficult."

"Well, have you heard it?"

"Y-Yes. Many times."
 I'd never admit that when I listened to Jascha Heifetz on any recording, I pretended it was me playing. Now, in front of the legendary violinist, I was suddenly at a loss, not only for words and confidence, but the most important ingredient of all—the notes.  

"It's settled," Heifetz said. "Mendelssohn Concerto—Finale."
He picked up a metal stick—was it a TV antennae?— and tapped it against the desk.
"I'll try to play it," I said.
"Don't try, just do it."

Here's Marjorie! (Ch.8 Pt.1)

I was lying on my powder blue canopy bed reading Seventeen, which I pilfered from the Memorial Middle School library, while watching a rerun of "Love Story" with the volume turned down. At thirteen, I was torn between wanting to look younger for concerts, like the child prodigy violinist Lilit Gampel, and wishing to be cool, like actress Ali MacGraw.   

Strains of my parents arguing wafted upstairs, swirling, like the spiral staircase.
"There's only one Heifetz," my mother shrieked. "It'd be the opportunity of a lifetime."
"I dunno what you're talking about Frances. You mean, Marjorie plays the Oklahoma concert as part of her Mid-West tour, then flies off to California? What for?"
"For exposure, John. So she can be in the presence of one of the greatest living artists of all times. Lilit Gampel played for Jascha Heifetz. It was written up in The New York Times Magazine. Why shouldn't Marjorie? And besides, one day she may want to study with him."
My father raged. I could hear his heavy footsteps pacing back and forth. "Jeezus, can't we just be a normal family for a change?"

J. Frederick Müller had booked me for concerts all throughout the Mid-West. My 1973 tour would culminate in Enid, Oklahoma at the Tri-State Music Festival. With Mr. Müller as conductor, we were to perform the Saint-Saëns "Introduction & Rondo Capriccioso" together with an orchestra comprised of three state high-schools. It would be a high profile event, according to Mr. Müller, with artists, music teachers and educators present from around the nation. The "Here's Marjorie" brochure that Mr. Müller designed had been circulated to every school and musical institution as part of American String Teachers Association. I received numerous requests to perform as soloist. And every Saturday, at Juilliard Pre-College, my mother wondered if I might be in better hands under the tutelage of Dorothy DeLay. Parents in the waiting room at Juilliard whispered that Miss DeLay had more clout than the other violin teachers. Her students were gaining recognition and winning international competitions. Isaac Stern had sent Miss Delay wunderkinder from Israel, the Far East, and the Soviet Union. And the students adored her for the tolerance she showed for Juilliard dress code. The secret was out: Dorothy DeLay allowed her students to wear bell-bottomed jeans.

"I'm not crazy about Miss Thomas," my mother admitted, finally.
My father wiped his brow with a sleeve. With the exception of Sarah Scriven, one teacher was as good as the next.
"She plays favorites."
"What are you talking about, Furrances?"
"John. If you don't believe me, let Marjorie tell you, herself."
Marjorie Jill! My mother shouted upstairs. I flung the magazine on the floor, turned off the television, and snapped to attention.
"Uh, what?" I had been deep in thought. My hair had grown out, and I could finally pull it back like Ali MacGraw.
"Tell your father about your teacher, and how she favors Stephanie."
My father stood beside my mother peering up at me. From my vantage point, on top of the spiral staircase, they both looked crazed. The top of my father's head had turned gray. My mother wore a frosted wig.

OK, I thought. Here's an opportunity. I never felt at ease with Miss Thomas. She made me cry at lessons.
"Yeah, well, she said I wasn't ready to perform Rondo Capriccioso in public, and that I'm concertizing too much."
"See, John," my mother said, victorious. "That teacher doesn't want anyone in Stephanie's midst."

My father, determined at last to pacify my mother, phoned Mrs. Reynolds, secretary to Jascha Heifetz, at the University of Southern California.
"It's settled," he told my mother, days later. "Jascha Heifetz is willing to hear Margie. She'll need to prepare scales and harpos."
"You mean arpeggios," said my mother.

"And she'll need to write an essay to Mr. Heifetz."

"An essay? What for?"

"She's supposed to put in her own words why she'd like to meet him, I guess. Frances, I'm just the messenger."

"I'll help her with the essay to make sure that it's polished. In fact, I'll write it for her to save time."
"In her own words, Frances—"
 "They'll be hers. Don't worry, John. To think that our daughter is going to play for Jascha Heifetz! Imagine? I wonder what we should  prepare—"
My mother darted me a glance at the top of the staircase where I stood leaning against my bedroom door.  "Well, let's see. You'll have "Rondo Capriccioso" at performance level. Maybe you could brush up on Achron's "Hebrew Melody" or Bloch's "Nigun". After all, Heifetz is an elderly, Yiddishe man."

I shifted from one foot to the other. I had heard Heifetz was a control freak, a man of few words, and an irascible artist.
"He'll adore you," my mother said, blowing me a kiss. "Pretend he's your grandfather."

♪ ♩ ♪

"Whatever you do," said my mother en route to Juilliard by Greyhound. "Don't tell Miss Thomas about the Heifetz audition. It's not for her to know."
We rested our heads on each other's shoulders in the bus, and fell asleep twisted like pretzels, but with a secret pact.
At my 8 AM lesson, I unzipped my music bag and placed Fiorillo Etudes on the music stand. Miss Thomas sat on the window ledge over-looking Lincoln Center. She crossed her legs, smoothed her skirt, and nodded for me to begin.
I held a note too long, out of rhythm. I felt exhaustion from the nocturnal, five hour bus ride. 

"Marjorie," Miss Thomas said. "Observe tempo and meter."
She lunged to the piano for pencils. I squinted at the music and tried again. My fingers felt like sausages.

"Intonation. Here's a red pencil. Next time, you'll have to mark in blue."

I started over after circling the errors, but botched another segment.
"Marjorie. Have you practiced this etude?"
And I thought, who does this woman think she is, Heifetz? I rolled my eyes.
Miss Thomas heaved a frustrated sigh.
"Mar-jor-ie. I would appreciate the courtesy of a reply."
The edge in her voice unnerved me.
"Perhaps Juilliard's not the school for you after all," said Miss Thomas. "It's a privilege to study here. We don't retain students who display negative attitudes by making faces at the teachers."
I lifted the violin to my chin, and began a concerto. I closed my eyes tight to hold back the tears, but it was of no use. The tears had dripped onto the violin. Miss Thomas reached for the box of Kleenex on top of the piano.  

Another lesson would be over, but not soon enough.